


Freezer Burn

by germkeepscryin



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Amputation, Blood, Cannibalism, Gore, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, butchery, gut fucking, implied capture bonding, sort of necro?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:33:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1854853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/germkeepscryin/pseuds/germkeepscryin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will wakes up in a freezer and is butchered by Hannibal</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freezer Burn

He opens his eyes and the whole room is red, red, red and glowing like a light shining over closed lids. There’s a burning hot pull at the nape of his neck and when he looks down he realizes he’s hanging like a heavy winter coat in the back of the closet, waiting. There’s nothing around his neck and it’s then that the tugging becomes a sharp pain, like he’s being stabbed, and Will Graham understands what’s happening.

His breath makes small clouds in front of his mouth. There are hooks hanging down from the ceiling or sky, and although they’re clinically clean (an unseen light reflects off of them like the moon, flickering as they swing in the still air of the freezer) something within Will tells him that they have seen plenty of use. He closes his eyes and looks outside of himself and knows that there is another gouged through a stretched and gaping hole on the back of his neck, suspending him above the smooth linoleum. His body sways as he wriggles his feet, desperately trying to touch the floor, which seems to be getting farther and farther away as the pain on his neck becomes sharper and sharper. Perhaps if he keeps moving the skin will rip entirely and he will fall to the ground and be able to escape, leaving two frayed chunks of skin and muscle to bleed and ooze as he crawls naked and cold across the distant ground. He tries to lift his arms but his wrists are tied together in a butcher’s knot behind his back. He tries to scream but when no sound comes out he realizes that his throat has been slit and that the warm feeling he hadn’t noticed before is his blood leaking out of the long gash and running down his bare torso to drip from his toes into what has become a black abyss. He is being bled.

A rush of panic fills him and he jerks and squirms desperately, his feet dangling helplessly, the muscles of his calves clenching. Just as he starts to kick his finds that his ankles have been tied as well, the string covered in rust, like it’d been there since he was born, skin bulging around the tightness.

There’s a clack-clack-clacking of shoes coming from behind the heavy sealed door directly across the room from him. He can hear metal brushing against metal, the quiet clang of the door handle being pulled and then it’s as if all of the air in the room is being sucked out. The figure standing in the threshold is black with a halo of light surrounding it. Him. Will doesn’t need to see the face to know that it’s Hannibal-- something inside of him had known before his eyes had opened, before he had come to. He tries to speak, “Hhh—“ it comes out as a strangled breath. Clack, clack, clack. Hannibal crosses the room. His leather shoes are pompous and Will wishes that he could crush Hannibal’s skull with them, could watch his maroon eyes burst inside of their sockets.

The thought makes something tighten in a distant recess of Will’s brain, makes the brightness behind Hannibal dim until he can see the individual creases of his apron, the bunched up skin around the scars on his wrists. “Will,” his lips are moving but his voice is coming from the walls, surround sound, “You’ve made quite a mess.”

He is scared. He is scared and he is angry because how dare Hannibal do this to him—hang him up like meat, bleed him like a pig. Will is more than a meal to Hannibal, he’s sure. He’s sure. He’s… sure. The floor is still an abyss except for a catwalk from the door to a large circle directly under Will, where his blood has pooled and is swirling down a grated drain. There’s a lot of it. Enough that he wonders how he is still alive, much less awake. “Hhhh—“  

Hannibal puts a hands on Will’s shoulder and the heat of it makes him realize how cold he is. He’s taken back to the boatyards he’d grown up on, a cold winter night when he had toppled over the side and almost drowned. His eyes are wide and he’s gasping for breath when he comes back to the moment, a scraping sound coming from above him as Hannibal urges him through the freezer on his hook. The relief he feels when he’s pulled off of the metal makes him shiver. _This is much worse than the freezing, crushing waves of the gulf_ he thinks as he’s pulled into another room. Hannibal pulls a small surgical trolley to his side and picks up a felt tip marker. Steady dotted lines are drawn above his ankle, under and above his knee. Hannibal lifts his leg to mark his thighs before circling and designating the roasts growing on his backside. The marker is cold and the ink is wet and Will feel humiliated when Hannibal draws the dashes above his cold and shriveled cock, looks up at him and has the gall to look sympathetic. Will would spit on him if his mouth wasn’t so dry.

He’s lifted and laid out on a flat metal table. His head lolls to the side limply, glassy eyes dilating as the height of the table is processed. But, what does it matter? Even if he did roll himself off of the table, what was he going to do afterwards? Squirm aimlessly around the room until he found an exit, like a worm after a heavy rain?

Hannibal cuts his hands and feet free and he immediately tries to escape despite the futility, limbs clambering and adrenaline pumping. It’s not enough, though. He’s weak and bloodless and Hannibal restrains his limbs, spread apart, with leather straps. The light above his head, shining down onto his face, is familiar and warm, but when he closes his eyes against the heat all he can see is the red walls of the freezer. “Hhh—“

“Shh,” Hannibal soothes, placing the knife carefully on the little surgeon’s table beside him. He strokes Will’s hair and he hates himself for finding comfort in the contact. “You’re fine, Will. I’m going to take very good care of you.” Will wants to die because he believes him.

There’s a band saw across the room that Will notices for the first time, but its slab is too small to accommodate his entire body, which calms him until he sees the bone saw in Hannibal’s masculine hands. It’s sleek and shiny. Steel. It looks like the outline of a knife, but bigger than any he’s seen before.

Hannibal runs his fingers delicately over the top arch of it before settling the serrated edge on top of the line marking Will’s thigh. “Shh.” He repeats, and Will’s tense body relaxes, is soothed. “You will behave now.” It not a question or and order. Hannibal states it because he knows it, and he knows it because Will does.

The sawing hurts. It is violent and he watches as his skin is pulled apart, as it clings to the metal. He opens his mouth to scream, tries to beg, to cry. He can do nothing but watch, silent and obedient as his bone is cut through. Hannibal doesn’t leave any skin to sew over the husk and Will knows he isn’t going to live, not that he had thought he would.

Hannibal repeats the process on Will’s other leg and then his arms. He can hear Hannibal unhooking the restraints, his disembodied limbs being set free. He is envious of his own dead arms and legs, which are carried off and sat on the table beside the band saw. He waits for a moment, expecting Hannibal to return to his side immediately and continue the torture. When he doesn’t, Will realizes that Hannibal intends to make him watch his own limbs be cut.

It’s as if the machine is being turned on right beside his ear, and he can almost feel the blade cutting off his feet and hands, slicing through his parts like butter. But he can’t.

He closes his eyes and then there’s something sharp tugging at the skin just under his ribs. It’s like electricity, making him jerk against the restraints, back thudding down onto the table when the knife breaks skin (goes deep, deep, deep), until the flesh of his stomach is parted all the way down to his exposed groin.

Hannibal fixes his sleeves, making sure they’re still tightly rolled up, before reaching into Will’s abdomen. His guts make a wet squelching noise as Hannibal rummages around. He looks up from the organs, his arms slick and red with juice that hadn’t been bled out of the man lying on his butcher’s slab, and holds eye contact with his patient, his friend, his livestock (well-fed and cared for, he would be succulent in a way only a domesticated longpig could be) and smiles, his mouth inhumanly wide and curling into endless spirals at the edges. He pulls both hands out at once, and licks a long stripe up his own bloodied forearm, tongue tracing the lines of the scar on his wrist before ending with a finger in his mouth that is sucked clean. His teeth are red when he smiles again. “You taste much better than you smell.” Will is ashamed, and his face would be burning if he wasn’t so chilled.

Hannibal wipes his hand on his apron, leaving big red smudges. He pushes the fabric aside and unbuckles his belt, pulling his already erect cock out. Will wants to squirm away but his body is tired and sore and if he moves he is afraid his organs will spill out. Hannibal pulls him closer to the edge of the table with one arm, effortless. It makes Will feel small. He is an object for Hannibal to manipulate at his pleasure. He is an animal to be harvested and although he is frightened and disgusted and angry, the weight of responsibility has been lifted and he feels liberated. And that is both loathsome and arousing.

He’s not sure what Hannibal wants from him until the man has grabbed a bundle of his intestines, staining his apron and pants as they leak the last of Will’s blood. “In the fifteenth century,” He starts, voice coming from everywhere. His erection is pressing into the mess of cold, slick organs. “Homosexuals on the receiving end of anal sex would be disemboweled as punishment.” His laugh is a cacophony. It’s all too loud; the gross squishing sound of Hannibal’s pelvis slamming into the limp mess of his guts, the arrhythmic drip, drip, drip of Will’s fluids splashing onto the floor.

Hannibal braces himself with one hand on Will’s chest, the warmth seeping into his skin. He imagines his skin boiling and blistering under the touch. It doesn’t. He grunts as he pushes roughly into Will’s organs, scraping his nails over the other’s chest, harsh enough to break skin. To Will, looking down at his own desecrated, bloodied body, it was a disgusting, animalistic scene; his intestines tangled in Hannibal’s fist like worms as the man ruts into the soft, slimy flesh of the organs.

Hannibal groans, hands sliding up Will’s neck to clench in the stiff locks of his hair as his hips hit harder, orgasm tightening the grip on Will’s scalp. He comes inside of the open pit of Will’s abdomen, his semen mixing with the goo of his insides and leaving stripes on his pancreas and stomach. Will wants to vomit. He tries to scream but nothing comes out, not even the desperate beginnings of a name. “Their hollowed out bodies would then be filled with ash.”

Will watches in horror as Hannibal guts him, pulling out his insides and dumping them into a tub. He feels Hannibal cut out his lungs and suddenly he’s suffocating but he won’t die, and god, how he wishes he could. Hannibal is delicate with cutting out his heart and brings it to Will’s face. It beats once.

He’s panicking now. There’s no reason for him to still be alive. How is he alive? Hannibal brings the thumping muscle to his mouth, holds eye contact with Will and bites into his heart like an apple.

Will opens his eyes and at first all he can see is white. There’s a hot light over him, shining over his face like a spotlight. His sheets are wet, wet, wet with sweat and he thinks that maybe he’s pissed himself. _Your name is Will Graham and you have just had a horrible nightmare._ He moves to turn off the light above him, but his arm doesn’t move. He looks down at his body, his blanket only slightly crumpled from his fitful sleep and can’t see the outline of his legs underneath, just the tenting of the fabric covering his own shameful erection. “You were screaming in your sleep again, my little lamb.” His hand is warm against his forehead and Will imagines his skin boiling and blistering under it, but it doesn’t. Instead he turns his face into the touch, anchoring himself with the contact. Hannibal smiles. Will’s insides churn. “I think it’s time for your medicine.”

**Author's Note:**

> willhologram.tumblr.com


End file.
